


The One True Knight

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-20 16:11:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was haunted by what he'd failed to do. He'd not been granted a night of sleep without seeing her—not the Little Bird in her radiance, the object of his affection, the focal point of his desires, but the beaten child—the little girl with cuts and gashes meant only for men, the prisoner, the captive. And now he was stuck with his prayers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Cannibal's Hymn

 

Stalactites of candle wax dripped from the small table; brittle white tendrils that had grown thick over time.  He’d managed to keep a constant flame going, altered his schedule so that when one was burning down he could transfer the light to another.  He’d kept the light going for over a year now.  A constant light burning, a constant prayer—the only thing that he felt like he could do.

 

When had the last raven darkened his window?  It seemed that it had been forever—an eternity of waiting for the sound of wings rustling, the bird’s constant cawing—the last link to her seemed to severed.  The Elder Brother had promised to send word of the speculation that surrounded her life, inform Sandor of any talk that they’d heard from penitents passing through the monastery.  Now there was nothing-- she could be tucked away God’s know where—living a life that only the God’s could imagine.  The silence was ever present—save for the daily keening of bells in the distance, and the low moan of the near-winter wind over fields that would soon be plowed over with ice.  The nearest township was a two-day walk away, hours by horse.

 

There was nothing to do but wait as the last leaves that hung onto autumn trees wait to be released from their weary sentence.

 

Sandor transferred the light from one candle to another.  The wick hissed as it was consumed by flame, billowing a small cloud of black smoke, carbon turning to darkness.  Darkness and despair, lethargy and the winter, bad rumors come down from the Wall and townships disappearing, that was something to light a candle for.  To the Father, to the Mother, to the Warrior, mayhaps even the Stranger.  But not the Maiden.

 

His candles were reserved for the Maiden only.  He’d tried to take the Faith in the only way that he knew how to—for her sake.  It was for her that he tried to still his breath before he spoke, that he’d given up drink and the whores and killing.  It was for her that he’d reticulated to an uninhabited corner of Westeros and waited for word— a sign of her life that he was certain would never come.  She was the image that he spoke to during silent hours, making himself kneel to pray, folding his devotion into itself, a fitful display of cosmic origami.  When he prayed, he couldn’t bring himself to say the words out loud—they made him feel a fool, could feel the words rattling in his teeth, sounding hollow and too pious-- so he offered them with his thoughts alone.  They’d gone from being a daily ritual to a mantra constantly intoned.  The word had changed from Maiden to Sansa over time, though it didn’t make much difference.  She was the goddess of his ablution—his constant renewal. 

 

He could have left long ago—disappeared when he took leave of the monastery—gone to the free cities, started over.  He’d have made no real sacrifice that way.  He could have held onto his old ways: the after burn of his constant rage, the sweet blindness of killing.  He could have drank his way through Essos, slept in taverns, chanced the spawning of whelps in the bellies of nameless whores, could have died young--as was intended for him.  Instead he was sitting on the edge of a growing abyss, burying and re-burying his dead nightly—all the while living with a dry throat, an empty bed.  All the while living with the voices of his dead speaking to him, reminding him of his crimes.  All the while living with his own voice, and the crimes against her that he’d committed when he’d spoken five awful words.

 

_There are no true Knights._

_There are no true Knights._

_There are no true Knights._

He was haunted by what he’d failed to do.  He’d not been granted a night of sleep without seeing her—not the Little Bird in her radiance, the object of his affection, the focal point of his desires, but the beaten child—the little girl with cuts and gashes meant only for men, the prisoner, the captive.  He saw the boy King that he’d partially fathered through time and influence methodically ruining her, tearing at her constantly—had to wonder _how much of his cruelty had been passed on to the little shit from me?_  He saw Meryn in his mind’s eye time and time again—beating her, stripping her before the court-- he felt in his blood and his bones every action that he didn’t take against them.  He saw Ilyn, Boros, the Kingsguard.  Every night Sandor had to witness his complacence in the face of forces that he could have curtailed and ended at any moment.  The most feared man in Westeros was unable to defend a girl—he had been too obedient a Dog to be a champion for her.  Too much a Dog to do much more than dream of fucking her, saving her only for a go at her cunt, for a fucking song.  He was haunted by all of the moments that he’d wasted, failed to communicate his wishes for her safety, his dedication to preserving her life.  He’d been mute to the lonely Little Bird who needed a friend more than anything else—and had worsened her situation by boasting of the sweetness of killing, the virtues of cynicism when all he’d wanted to do was forge a world for her where her storybook dreams weren’t anything but the routine of reality.  He’d estimated himself to be a hero by teaching her how to lie, to subvert the King’s attention, to give up the notion of true redemption.  He had to face every day knowing that he could have saved her at any moment, and that he’d ruined his only opportunity to do so, and in doing so ruined her.  He had to live with the memory of his last stand, his half-cocked attempt at springing her from her cage.

 

His moment of brilliance. 

 

Pressing his blade to her throat, demanding a song—frightening her—that was his answer to her problems?  His heart sick with her, his body flooded with drink and adrenaline, his senses overwhelmed by love and anger rolled into one-- 

 

He’d stood beside the boy King during every terror and stared out into the void, doing nothing.

 

Nothing.

 

Nothing.

 

It would have been far too easy to have lobbed the child King’s head off—ended his reign of terror immediately—but he had refused.  Was he afraid of being called Kingslayer?  He’d been called worse.  Had he been afraid that if he’d do so he’d be overpowered, killed—that he’d lose his chance at winning her favor—of fucking her?  That question haunted him always. 

 

\--He knew he could have saved her.  He didn’t have to wait for Blackwater to make his move.  He could have killed Ilyn before he’d killed her father and ended it all then and there.  He could have given her an entire life to live and sacrificed his shit one for a worthy cause, taken out enough men to have given Ned a fighting chance, for someone to step in—to change the tides just enough.  He could have—would have-- been killed then, but he’d have been her True Knight in his death and existed that way in her memory.  A much better memorial than who we was.  Is.  Still is.  He was still awaiting redemption.

 

And now he was stuck with his prayers, lighting his candles and begging the Maiden to watch over her.  Swearing that if ever given the chance again he would stop at nothing to right his sins against her—he’d burn for a century if it would keep a cold wind from visiting her face.  There was nothing that he wouldn’t do.

 

He’d given the Maiden his vow.  His sword would be in her eternal service if ever needed.  If ever called. 

 

He was nearly certain that she was dead.  That by his inaction he’d killed her.  Either way, he’d live for her and only for her—her life, her chances, her memory—only her.  If she ever had need he’d save her--as he should have a thousand times before. 

 

During his contemplations he’d have to remind himself to pray that she would have a happy life without him, that there would never be a need for him to give of himself—and how often he hated himself for wanting reason to save her.

 

 


	2. Bird At My Window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stranger arrives.

Cold rivulets of sweat ran down his brow, tracing his throat, down his tunic, his chest, his back, his arms—the air was sharpened with the steel of the impending first frost, but still he was sweating, pressing himself harder and harder. He spent the late afternoon running across the field, training in isolation. He'd carry large stones on his back and push himself to sprint until he could no longer breathe—he'd practice with his swords, climb trees, force himself to do push-ups and chin-ups and lunges until his legs and arms began to feel as though they'd never stop shaking—pushing himself to the brink of collapse, exhaustion, the very limit of his stamina. He wanted to know where that ended, and what point could his body no longer function—he'd been yet to find it. His dark hair clung wet to the sides of his face, and his lungs felt like they were being burned by a dull fire—it was the only part of his day when his mind went still, when he could stop the winnowing of his sodden conscious.

He'd come to depend on that part of his routine. Living in almost perfect isolation made it essential to do something structured, to parcel out time at an even clip so that his day-to-day did not descend into hopeless doldrums. He'd be damned if he let his body go fallow and become useless. Living without drink made it so that he was able to focus his efforts, to concentrate as he'd never done before. In all truths, he'd never been in a better physical condition. His strength was now surpassing that which he'd known—an astronomical feat, he estimated, considering what he had started with. His muscles were bulging in places that he thought had developed to full capacity; his neck was noticeably thicker, his ribs were buried beneath wings of hardened flesh that made his torso much more imposing than before. It was a physical link to his brother that was becoming more and more evident; at this rate he'll be bigger than he had ever been. When he was a younger lad he'd dream of surpassing him just so that he could best him—so that he could kill him—so that he could watch The Mountain's eyes fill up with terror before going black. It seemed a waste now that the task had been carried out by another. His rage burned brighter now, albeit cleaner. He'd drank himself into a nightly stupor because of it before; striving for some sort of peace now hadn't erased that fathomless, aching rage. He had just begun to live with it, to let it transform itself into something that he could utilize.

He often thought about his isolation, and wondered at it, as a lonesome traveler wonders at the distance made from one point to another. Without news of the outside world he'd become confused by why exactly no one had tracked him down. He was no fool—he knew that the Spider would be able to find him if his head were desired. Perhaps the Mad Dog of the Saltpans was dead now, and with it his legacy died as well—or at least any man's concern for his whereabouts. Perhaps he was being kept alive and free, a tool for future events out of his hands—he didn't know. Perhaps everything had fallen to shit in the great wide world and he'd somehow been passed over. He tried not to dwell too much on these thoughts, but kept himself prepared in the case that he ever woke to the sound of Lannister men approaching. Of any men approaching for that matter.

Time would only tell.

Sandor laid out on chilly grass, wiping his wet brow, his swords lain out beside him. In the distance he heard his dog's bailing cry. He starred up at a sky that was the crisp, wide blue of fall and thought of her. It was the color of her eyes. It was as though the very heavens themselves had chosen to glorify her. It only seemed fitting that the blue was visible through the trees with their red leaves—her again. He smelled the sweet scent of grasses that shivered in the wind, rippling like waves on a lake. The weakening sun shone through the tree line, refracting and transforming into a great glowing oculus. The low buzzing sound of the last of the Summer cicadas still hung in the air, along with the high notes of the birds; they'd all be dead soon. The trees would go from golden to gray, and finally to white. Crystal snow flakes would soon begin falling, followed by the ice storms, followed by the frosts and then the blizzards, and then the seemingly never ending black of sunless days buried under fathomless depths of snow. If he didn't hear of her soon there would be no more hope; the whispers of a never-ending night were never far from his mind.

He closed his eyes.

The dreams began before he was even aware that he was sleeping; never the same dream, only a loose confederation of his bad memories and his best hopes. He saw her being spirited away by a fair-haired knight, her skin pale like gossamer. He saw her doubled over in her saddle, her arms thin and wan. He didn't recognize her by her looks; she too had been transformed. He saw the Summer Isles in her eyes, he saw the North, he saw the free cities—he watched her as she was taken from her saddle and abandoned in an open field.

He awoke suddenly as the sun was sinking low; the sky had turned to layered tapestry of purples, oranges, pinks—a small rim of black storm heads gathering at the corners of his vision. His dog had long returned to him and was slumbering away. Sandor sat up and felt immediately annoyed—he worried about the candle, his devotion. He'd planned on sharpening his axe to gather lumber tomorrow—now he'd have to stay up later to do so. The light was gone so there would be no reading, either. He'd not intended to fall asleep in a grove like a boy, dreaming of fair maidens. Now everything had been pushed back. Living alone had made him quite self sufficient and dependent on his self imposed schedule; he was able to fend for himself almost entirely, and acquire whatever else he needed during his seldom-frequent trips into the small village. The delayed clock-work of the afternoon had not been planned and was therefore an annoyance.

He rose and felt himself shivering, his bones shot through with ice. The wind bellowed in from the North, no longer a breeze but a gale. He regretted not bringing a cloak with him, as the walk back to his small house was still yet a long one. He gathered up his blades and whistled for his mutt to follow him. He'd not really claimed the dog as his own; it had followed him from the village and had failed to leave. He fed it and had grown to find its company oddly agreeable. It seemed only natural that he'd have a dog—an ugly mutt, but a dog all the same. He'd yet to name the poor bastard, estimating that if Dog had been a title fit for him at one time, perhaps the beast wouldn't mind either.

They walked in silence, first by the waning evening light and then by nothing but their senses. The stars were not shining and there was no moon; the black clouds had swallowed up the entire sky, consuming all light. He breathed deeply and could smell rain. He regretted not only failing to take a cloak, but was wishing for a lantern. The dark was becoming too thick and he found it to be inconvenient to navigate through it. Had he no concern about the candle burning at home he might have just slept in the woods instead of walking at a half pace through the underbrush.

He walked for an hour, hoping to make it in before the sky opened up and drenched him with needles of cold rain. He was relieved when, at last, he came upon the clearing, a low flat stretch of land that ran to the edge of a riverbank. He could see the faint gray outline of his house despite the darkness, and was relieved at the promising hint of a dull light in his window. It still burned—his constant devotion still flickered.

The dog trekked ahead of him, sniffing at the ground—not exactly a proper tracking dog, but still one that he'd been glad to have when he had to go hunting. He broke out into a run when he saw the house, charging for it, bailing and crying as he made tracks, snapping twigs and brittle leaves in his wake. Sandor followed behind him, no longer feeling rushed. He'd be at his door in a matter of moments—let the dog run, he'd take his time.

The dog began circling something madly—howling and barking up a storm.

Sandor stopped dead in his tracks—the dog had gotten so much further ahead that he couldn't see what had made him erupt in his cries. He was barking like a mad beast, bailing and howling—at what? Gods, he wished that he could see through the dark. He kept his hand on the hilt of his longsword and took up a sprint, doubling his pace until he was a less than twenty yards from his front door. He peered through the thickening dark watching the mutt pace and bark at the shadows.

Nothing there—he could see that plainly though the dark. Nothing but the wind and the thick night that was getting colder and colder. The dog insisted on crying at something near his door—mayhaps a raccoon—certainly nothing of any substance could hide in the sliver of shadow between his door and the wooden awning that shaded it from sun and rain. Sandor felt so annoyed at the dog that he could have kicked it—the stupid mutt.

He walked slowly up the front steps, willing his eyes would to adjust to the thick, syrupy darkness.

Everything came into focus all at once, as though the sun had suddenly risen and dispersed the night to the nether worlds. Instantly he saw a shadow that was clutching itself against his door, wrapping its hooded cloak around its body for protection, clearly afraid of the animal that was snapping and lunging towards it. Sandor's mind was quieted; he didn't think—his body only reacted: without effort his legs were taking long strides, his long sword drawn, his shoulders squared, his elbows and arms locked.

"Who's there?!" He called, readying himself for all avenues of action.

The fucking dog wouldn't quit barking.

He drew closer and called out again.

"Who's there?!" He repeated.

The dog backed away, circling instead behind his master.

Sandor opened his mouth to demand an answer again but was cut off-

-It was a whimper—not of pure pain, or of absolute fear, but something worse; he'd heard it many times in his life. It was dread. It was agony. It was desperation—the kind of desperation that leads to eventual madness, the unspeakable and the profane wrapped around itself, the alchemical process of terror and disgust and confusion and agony mixed together and transmuted.

The figure dropped its hood to see him—it was milk white skin that was glowing—

His sword dropped to the ground, where it smashed against cold earth with a hard thud. The wind blasted frozen shards from the river, freezing him to his core. He began to struggle with his breath. He felt himself choking, unable to surface, his lungs and stomach and guts twisting, as though there were a knife being wrenched into his sides. His jaw tensed and his knees began buckling—the world began to spin.

And suddenly, everything went dark as the candle in the window petered out.

"Help me." She whispered, her voice as quiet as a moth fluttering against glass. To his ears, it sounded loud enough to shake the stars from the heavens.


	3. Medicine Man

Vomit stained the front of her dress; her skin was caked in dirt, blood, dust—her hair was in a tangle, her braid undone, chestnut curls twisted into knots. Her hands were bloodied and raw, bisected with cuts and scrapes. How could this be her? Her hair, her skin—was this his Little Bird? Had she flown to him? She was beyond thin, she was gaunt, hollow and fragmented, a shell. Her once noble cheekbones cut like blades, the bridge of her nose like a sharp rod. He could see that under her cloak and dress that she weighed as much as a small child. Gone was her body burgeoning into healthy womanhood—instead she was like a twig which could easily snapped in two. She was shaking, shivering out of control.

"You're alright, Little Bird." He whispered, ushering her in from the cold. The wind was picking up, knocking the shutters and moaning low across the clearing. The Dog was still going wild—snapping and growling, barking in anger. He'd had to kick him back—it was terrifying her. She flinched when it jumped at her, shielding her face with her hands. He'd kennel the bastard for the night.

And now she shrunk away from him as he offered her his hand. Her jawbone was all the while trembling, her teeth chattering. He led her into his house—it too was freezing. The temperature had taken a dive, thunder began to rumble in the distance.

"Don't be afraid, Little Bird." He told her as he lit candles, scrambled to build a fire, went to gather blankets for her.

Had she flown to him?

Was he still asleep?

"Little Bird…"

"Please, Ser, help me." The tome she kept repeating. _Ser. Of course._ Her eyes were completely blank, clouded over. They weren't as blue as they had been; they were milky and soiled, like egg shells boiled in indigo dye.

But it was her.

It had to be her.

Chestnut hair, eyes that were as vacant as the sea—

It was her, still. Her, her, her, the maiden fair, the Little Bird.

"Little Bird?"

She shook her head.

"Pretty Bird?"

"Please help me, Ser."

"Sansa?!"

She looked at him as though she'd never heard her name before. "Help me."

"What has happened?" He asked her, his voice rattling. He could hear it in his ears, the way he could hear his prayers when said aloud. Everything seemed as though it were happening externally.

Before she could answer she was doubled over, vomiting again. The bile didn't reach the floor—rather, it dribbled down her chin and onto the lap of her dress. She was heaving and crying, begging for help again. _It was her_ , and it isn't. The unspeakable had occurred, he knew that for certain.

He gathered her up into his arms and shushed her as she tried to squirm away. She was as frightened as a kitten confronted by a pit viper. He carried her to his washroom and laid her out beside his tub while he prepared her a bath.

* * *

He undressed her with the care of a Maester, refusing to look down at her soiled body. It wasn't the same body now—it was lacerated, covered in bruises the color of the sky in winter. Her thin arms were more bone than meat; the joints in her elbows and wrists protruded out like stones. Her skin was tender and colored like rotting fruit; her inner arms were deepened by blue bruises criss-crossed by her veins, like discarded embroidery threads. The needle-hole scars were puckered and black, like little wild eyes staring up from her extremities. They were resting on pillows of red flesh that rose off of the palate of her milk skin, the clear sign of infection, disease, failing health. Her covered the bathtub in a sheet while she languished in hot water so that her privacy could be respected. She didn't look at him, but she wasn't wincing away. She was mostly murmuring and vomiting watery bile, looking at nothing in particular.

He was afraid that she'd come to him just to die.

That his penance would be thus; laying her to rest.

* * *

"I need my medicine." She begged him—she could communicate that much. Help, medicine, help, medicine. "It is in my bag." She directed him.

* * *

She'd drift in and out of consciousness, as a leaf swirls in a tide-pool.

* * *

"Do you know me, Little Bird?"

"Yes." He unwittingly smiled when she said that she did, and was crushed when she continued. "You are the Stranger."

* * *

It didn't take him long to piece together what was happening as he went through her bag, pulling out bottles. Her satchel was almost completely empty. He'd had to dress her in one of his tunics because she had no other clothing, save for the white cloak, now filthy as well. His heart felt like it had been broken when he pulled it out. It was the only possession that she had in the world—beside her medicine. His cloak.

The bottles—he knew them. Anyone who had lived his life knew them. It was whore's medicine.

Of course there would be Milk of the Poppy, but there were other things. Harsh opiates that dissolved the mind and ruined the body, halcyon for concentration, the nerve killers, the pain medicines made of Gods-know-what. And of course the needles: injections, straight to the blood stream. He was no alchemist, but he knew why they were given: to make women utterly compliant, without protest, without a fight in them. They could be beaten without struggling, fucked and passed around without being fed for the day. It was given to the wenches that were stolen, taken in—they were drugged until they forgot something. Until there was no more spirit left in them.

If they were given the drugs for long enough they died. They'd begin to lose control of their bodily functions, vomiting and shitting and losing their hair—until they were too ugly to be fucked and too hungry eat. They'd waste away.

She was wasting away.

Only the strong ones were given that shit—it was so that they could be broken.

She'd not be broken.

But the bottles would be, underneath his feet: ground into the earth, until the liquid dissolved completely so that it could no longer poison. As he swore he'd do to whoever had methodically dismantled her. But the bottles felt no pain. That wouldn't be replicated.

There would be pain.

* * *

"That's it, pretty bird." He rasped as he held the steaming cup to her lips, slowly tilting it so that she could take a sip. His other hand was placed on the back of her head, supporting her as she sat up, guiding her mouth to the lip of the cup. Her head threatened to fall to the side, her neck unable to stay straight. Her arms weren't going to move—her eyelids were heavy, as though made of iron curtains. She was breathing, though—and that was more than enough for the moment. As long as she was breathing she was living. He held the bowl under her chin, helping to support her head as she sipped at the stew. She'd finally stopped crying about needing her medicine. He knew that she was in Hell. He was just trying to get her to swallow some food. He'd had rabbit stew on the fire when she'd arrived, and was grateful for it. She needed something to make her strong again, something that would go down easily.

He'd placed her in his bed, wrapped her in his blankets and furs.

He'd had to help her to use the chamber pot, as she was unable to squat for herself. He had to hold her up while she retched so that she didn't spoil his tunic, now her night shift. Her knees wouldn't stop shaking—her ankles were weak and brittle, her spine didn't want to stay straight.

"Thank you, Ser." She'd grimace as he helped her. He could only imagine how horrified she would have been, a Lady being helped by The Hound to use the chamber pot—

And now he sat by her side as she slept, ready to help her if she woke up needing to vomit.

To comfort her when she woke up screaming.

To give her a wet compress if her head hurt.

To assure her that she wasn't alone.

To fight off the bad things.

To remind her to breathe when she began to panic about her medicine.

She'd been convinced that she was dying.

Yet she'd flown to him.


	4. Every Me and Every You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confusion is giving way to anger- will Sandor be able to keep good on his promise to be devoted no matter what?

Her eyes fluttered open.  She’d been asleep well over an entire day—her system was in such terrible shock.  Without the medicine that she’d become so accustomed to her body went into a state of shock.  She woke up to the ruddy dawn of a new day, as pale light crept in through linen curtains.  She felt warm and terribly cozy, wrapped in layers of blankets and furs.  She yawned, could smell something strangely sweet yet acidic in the air.  A hand was on her arm, working something into her skin.  It tingled slightly, like wintermint.

It took her a moment to come-to and register who was holding her arm.

“Gods in the Heavens!” She murmured and she pulled her arm back to her side, sitting up.  He let go of it gently.

“Sleep well, Little Bird?” He asked her.

She regarded her arm, non-responsive.

“Do you know where you are?”

“I absolutely do not.  And I do not know you, either.” She said, refusing to make eye-contact. 

“Little Bird…”

“Alayne.”

“Alayne?”

“Yes.  Alayne Snow—my father is Lord Baelish of—” She began, her mouth gone dry.  The words no longer felt right.  She felt like she was spitting them out.  She shook her head and tried again.  “My father…”

“Your father?” He asked, his voice frosty.  “Is your _father_ the one who has been turning you into a corpse?  The Others take that bastard.  He’s not your father.”

She looked up into his eyes, her jaw hanging slack—anything but ladylike.

“He is my father…” She gently protested.

“And I’m sitting upon the Iron Throne.  He isn’t your father.  Your father was—”  He stopped, “your father was a better man than Littlefinger.”

“But—”

“Sansa Stark—you are not the daughter of Littlefinger.” He said to her again, sternly.  “You are Sansa.  Sansa—the Pretty Bird.  Say it.  Please, Sansa, please say it.” He urged.

She looked away from him, tears welling in her eyes.

“Where is my medicine?  My father says that if I don’t take it I will die—I’m terribly sick…”

“Sansa!  Say your name.” His voice was pleading.  “Please tell me that you know yourself.”

Her tears began streaming down her face, as her shoulders shook.

“I’m Alayne, ser.”

“ _I’m no Ser._ ” He said to her, his voice dark—the old rasp, the old incarnation of his voice.  “Remember.  Please, remember.”

She buried her head into her hands, and began to cry harder until her entire body was shuddering.  She was coughing and choking on her exertions.

“He said she was dead—he turned me into her…” She whimpered.

“Sansa, Sansa, please—please—please say your name.  Please.” He was begging, his voice keening.

“Sansa…” She repeated.  She began to wail.  “I’m dying…  I need my medicine…”

“You aren’t going to die—I swear it.  Say your name again.  Say it until you remember.  Please.”  He could recall the last time he’d pleaded for something so vehemently. 

His screams in the fire pit were the last time.  And this.  Her name.

“Sansa?  Sansa…” She began to say.  “Sansa.  Sansa Stark.”

She looked up and saw a smile on his face, and remembered.  She thought of his terrible smiles, the way he used to stare her down.  His eyes were different now, though.  She looked straight into them and saw no hatred.  She shuddered—they were soft grey.  And perhaps kind.

“Sandor Clegane…” She said, swallowing hard.  “Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane…”

“You know yourself?  Please, Little Bird, tell me you know yourself.”

“Yes.” She nodded, “I suppose I always did.”

She raised her hand and almost touched him before pulling away. 

“Leave me.  I’m exhausted.” She said coldly, turning from him.  She threw herself back down upon the bed and covered her face.  “I mean it.”

Sandor stood and looked at her.  _This is to be expected._   _Have patience._

Without a word he stood and walked out of his bedroom, closing the door gently behind him.

* * *

 

Two days passed—long, hard days.  He knew he’d made a mistake when he began asking questions, but he couldn’t help himself.  His desire to know everything that had happened to her since that last night was too strong.  He had to back off asking her how she’d arrived at his door.  She’d babble on about some fair headed woman that spirited her away—surely she was raving or confused.  He couldn’t ask about where she’d been recently—he wasn’t prepared for that.  He wanted to know why she was in such a state, but had to ready his mind for the answer, first.  He thought that he could ask her, then, about what happened to her after Blackwater—perhaps the wounds had healed better where that was concerned.  But he should have given her more time.  She was still going through horrid withdrawls—but he couldn’t stop.  When the words fell out of his mouth he wished that he could devour them so they would go unnoticed—but of course, that was an impossibility.

“You’re married now?”

“I’m no more married than you are a Knight.” She spat, looking away from him. 

“You married the Imp.” He returned, his voice holding more daggers than he intended.

“I haven’t done _anything_.  I was forced into a Sept, nothing more.” She said quickly, as though she wanted to dash the subject against a wall.

“But you are married.”

“I am a maid, if that is what you are asking me.” She said, her voice breaking.                                                                                                                     

“No, Sansa, I’m asking—“

“You are asking me if my maidenhead is intact!  Go ahead, say it!  You’re going to sell me off like everyone else has tried to do and you want to find out what price my chastity is worth!  It’s intact—I hope that you make a fortune.”  She cried out, lashing at him with her tongue.  Her eyes had narrowed and turned dark. 

Sandor sat and stared at her, not knowing what to say.  He was determined to make good on the promise that he’d made to himself—he’d be honest with her, and he wouldn’t fight.  He wouldn’t lose his temper this time—he wouldn’t make a mess of things.  He wouldn’t scream at her, he wouldn’t frighten her—not now.

“I don’t intend to sell you off, Little Bird.” He whispered, averting his eyes from her glare.

“Then what do you intend to do, _Dog_?”

Sandor paused and shook his head, raising his eyes to meet her glare.  The hatred in her voice was unsettling.  Her eyes burned like fire.  He could see her pulse running hot in her exposed veins, her sunken cheeks and razor jaw line tense. 

“I’ll do whatever it is that you want me to do.” He replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

“What I want?  What _I want_?!” She cried.  Her shoulders were shaking now.  “I want to be with my family again—I want my father.  Where were you when he was being slaughtered?  Oh, I remember—standing behind him, doing nothing!  The most feared man in Westeros cowering behind a boy king’s orders!  I want my sister, who you _lost_. I want to be sure that I am not going to have another knife shoved against my throat by a madman demanding a song!”  She was upon him, her bony fists pummeling against his chest, her open hand against his face in broad, weak slaps.  Tears were streaming from her eyes, her entire body shaking.  Sandor felt each blow as it hit him, as light as a feather.  He didn’t move to stop her—he let her beat him to the best of her ability.

She began collapsing, each blow lessening.  She sunk from the bed to the ground, doubling over on herself, hiding away from him.  She realized what she’d done and became frenetic, terrified of him.  She laced her hands over the weak part of her neck to form a shield, as though waiting to have her strikes answered likewise.

Sandor knelt on the floor beside her, keeping his distance.  He wouldn’t frighten her.  He stretched out his hand as gently as possible, offering her support.

“I’ve failed you enough, Little Bird.  I won’t do it again.” He said.

She shuddered, reticulating even farther into herself.  He didn’t move his hand—he kept it extended.  He wouldn’t let her rise without having support.  He wouldn’t leave her lying alone in terror ever again.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why have you kept me alive?  Why keep me here, if not to use me?”  She sobbed.  She wouldn’t sit up, wouldn’t stop cowering.

“I have my reasons.”

“Oh, Gods…” She whimpered—she knew the reasons that men kept.

“I’m not going to harm you, Little Bird.  I promise.  Please.”

“You aren’t you going to hurt me?  Why?!”

“Little Bird-“

“No!  Why?!  Why?!  Answer me!” She screeched, her voice sounding like a dying creature alone in the woods.

“Because—“ He started and paused.

“Because why?” She hissed, sitting back up.  She met his eyes and locked onto them with strange ferocity. 

“Because I love you, Little Bird.”  He nearly strangled himself with the words.

Sansa began laughing—a small laugh that turned into a manic cackle.

“You love me?  You—you love me?  You have no right.” She hissed.

“I know.  But I won’t let you down again—“

“I don’t care if you let me down, _Dog—“_ She sneered at him.  “I don’t care, because I hate you.”

Sandor closed his eyes when she said the words.  He tried to take a deep breath, but was afraid he’d choke on it.  His fears were confirmed.  He hoped that she didn’t mean it—Gods know that he’d said enough things in his life that he hadn’t meant.

He didn’t drop his outstretched hand.

“It doesn’t make a difference.  I love you—I always have, and I always will.  Hate me if you must, but I won’t hurt you again.” He drew his hand closer to hers.  “Hate me forever.  It won’t stop me from protecting you, as I should have before.  I won’t fail you again.”

She slapped his hand away.

“Just leave me be.” She sniffed.

He withdrew his hand and stood, looking down on her, still crumbled in a heap on the floor.

“I mean it.  Just—just leave me alone.”

Sandor turned from her, saying nothing.  He stalled before he reached the door.

“If you need me I will be in the front room.” He said.

“I doubt I will.”

“Either way.”

He walked out the door and gently closed it behind him.  With a piece of wood dividing them he was able to shudder on the opposite side of the threshold.  His hands flew up to his face as he suppressed the urge to scream out, to beat holes into the wall, to kick down the door, to trap her forever.  His mouth went dry as a salt water tear threatened to form in his eye.

 

* * *

 

Sandor tried to keep his eyes open; the room was blurring around him.  He’d been up for almost three straight days.  Three days with her purging—holding her head while she vomited, keeping her straight while she used the chamber pot so that she wouldn’t fall over.  Three days of erratic behavior—he was worn out.  He felt his body slipping away from him—he couldn’t hold out any longer.  Even after the vitriol that she’d spit at him he didn’t want to leave her alone in her condition.  He wasn’t a maester; time spent with the Brothers did nothing to prepare him for taking care for anyone in her condition.  But what other option was there?  None.  He was slipping into the abyss of sleep, and couldn’t stop from tumbling down the slope.  Before he could regret pressing her on the issue of the imp the room went black, his body still.

* * *

 

 

She was screaming.  It took less than a second for his body to kick in—long strides leading to his bedroom.  She’d managed to get herself up onto his brass bed, and was now wailing like a goaded beast.  He could see, through the pre dawn light straining in from the window, her body twisting in her sheets.  The guttural noise was too much.  He rushed to her side, suddenly frenetic.

 

“Little Bird—”

“Help me—please—I’m burning, please Gods, help me.” She cried out, her face contorted.  She was writhing, dry heaving in between her screams.  Her body felt like it had been dipped in wild fire.  Her skin was crawling and overwhelmingly hot, her nerves singed by an invisible force—like an electric pulse gone out of control.  Every movement was torture, and sitting still was a nightmare too.  “Please, please…” She pleaded.

Wordlessly, he scooped her up and took her to his bath.  Her weightlessness broke his heart—she was like a sack of cloth.  He placed her in the ceramic basin and began drawing cold water, not bothering to undress her.  He didn’t want to, he couldn’t.  He took handfuls of water and eased them over her while she cried out, gripping the sides of the bath.

“I’m dying.  I’m dying.  You lied—I’m dying.  Oh, Gods…” She murmured over and over, her spine contorting, her face looking heavenward.

“You’re not dying Pretty Bird.  You’re body is kicking all the shit that’s in it, is all.”

“Please, please, just give me some medicine—” She pleaded.  “Just a little to make it stop.”

“I threw it all out—it’s gone.”

“How could you throw it out?  I’m dying, I’m sick.”

“Your not sick, girl.” He said dismissively.

“How would you know?  Are you so smart that you know?”

“Do you know what you were taking, Little Bird?” He barked at her.

“Yes—small doses of a vitamin complex, some painkillers, Tears of Lys, Milk of the Poppy…”

“No—you were taking _whores_ medicine _.”_ He shouldn’t have used that word.  _Seven hells._

“How dare you!  You’re against me!” She screamed out, splashing water out of the tub.  After her outburst she seemed to sink back into herself.

Sandor took a washcloth and submerged it in the warm water, placing it on her brow.

“I’m not against you.” He whispered, deciding to ignore her protestations.  He sighed heavily  “Does the water help?”

Sansa starred up blankly, her lips locked and tense, suddenly very still.  A quiet moment drifted by between them—she seemed like she was slipping out of her body again.

“Little Bird?”

“What?” She asked, suddenly snapped back into the room.

“Does this make you feel better?”

“Yes—yes, it does.” She replied, her lips parting into a nearly undetectable smile.  She then frowned.  “Gods, I’m freezing.”

 

* * *

 

            Sansa tried to tip toe across the front room, unsuccessfully.  She knocked into a small table, nearly sending the candle that was burning upon it onto the floor.  The late evening sun was setting and Sandor was still asleep on his couch, completely blacked out.  After he’d given her the last bath he couldn’t fight his exhaustion—he’d gone under completely.  Not before lighting the candle again, keeping his prayer going.  The curtains were drawn and the room was growing darker by the minute.  Sansa’s nose was bleeding badly and her head felt like it was being cracked open with an ice-pick.  The bath had helped her, but she still felt quite ill.

            “Awake, Little Bird?” Sandor asked her without opening his eyes. 

            “Gods!  I thought you were asleep!” She exclaimed, clutching her nose with both of her hands.

            “I was, until I heard you crashing about.” He replied, keeping his eyelids down.

            “I’ve a nosebleed and a headache—I was going to see if you had a handkerchief, and something for my head.”

            “There is nothing for your head, Little Bird.  I told you, I threw all of your shit out.  I do have cloth for you, though.” He said, kicking his legs over the side of the couch.  “Sit down, I’ll get them for you along with a glass of water.”

            Sansa looked at him for a moment and then cautiously sat down next to the space that he just rose from.

            “No wine?”

            “No Little Bird, I’ve no wine.”       

            “I never would have thought that you’d be without a flagon of Dornish Sour.” She replied, her voice harsher than she intended.  After Sandor didn’t respond she felt guilty.  “I’m sorry—“

            “Don’t be.  I wouldn’t have either.” He replied from a distance while pulling a cloth out of a cupboard in his bathroom.  He turned his faucet on and let it flow until it ran clear, free of ground-minerals.  He filled a small cup for her and returned to the spot where she’d taken a seat.  “Here.”

            Sansa took the white and shoved it to her nose.  For a moment her memories rushed back to her.  She remembered the first time he’d given her a cloth for a bleeding nose.  It made her stomach feel as though something rotten had crawled up into it, and yet it also soothed her.  She was so tired of duality.  Her headache was mind-numbingly painful.  It made her eyes feel as though they would fall from her skull, like there was a tiny man breaking rocks between her ears.  The night before seemed to have been the worst, and though she didn’t feel much better, she could only hope that each progressive day would get easier.

            Sandor sat on the floor across from her, folding his legs into a square.

            “How are you feeling, Little Bird?”

            “Awful.” She said.  “I feel as if I could die at any moment.”

            “I’m sorry to hear that.  You’ll feel better soon.”

            Sansa nodded and tilted her head back, watching dust particles swirl in the gloaming light that crept in through the curtains.  She felt a chill run through her, followed by a burst of heat.  Her body had been going hot and cold from minute to minute all day.  It made her sleep agonizing—having to kick off her blankets and then burrow back into them.  She wondered if a time would come when physical misery would no longer accompany her.

            “I think that I should apologize for how I spoke to you last night.” She said solemnly, unable to look at him.

            “You don’t have to apologize—”

            “Yes, yes I do.  I didn’t mean to be so very harsh.”

            “You’re not obligated to rescind what you said.”

            “Am I not?” She asked, incredulous.  “I’ve lived an entire life of obligations, apologies—”

            “I know.” Sandor watched her as she spoke, her skin looking like ghost flesh in the fading light.  He wanted to un-see the bruises that ran along her collarbone like puffs of greenish smoke.  He wanted to go and scrub the scabs off of her arms.  “But you aren’t under any obligation, not here.”

            “Truly?”

            “Of course not.”

            Sansa considered him for a moment, lifting her head so that she could gaze at him.  His eyes—they were clear and grey.  Soft, even.  Not a sign of hatred in them.  A moment of focusing on him set her off the feeble balance that she’d managed to slip into, and she was soon shaking.  Her nose hadn’t stopped bleeding and now she was crying involuntarily.  It took less than five seconds for her to begin weeping, her shoulders rocking and her knees shivering.  She was tired of that too—constantly crying.  She knew that there was a time when she was stronger than that.  Why was she allowing herself to fall apart?

            “Little Bird…”

            “No, I’m fine.” She sobbed before he could continue.  “I’m not fine—I just, I…”

            Sandor didn’t move from his place on the floor.  The candle in the corner began flickering, casting big shadows around the room.

            “Could you sit next to me for a moment?” She asked him, not knowing why.  She just wanted to close the distances between her and the world.  She wanted to feel someone radiating the warmth of pumping blood near her.

            “I can.” He stood and turned, taking a seat on the couch near her while giving her enough distance to not feel smothered. 

            She reached out a timid hand and covered his with it, gently pressing into his fingers.

            “I can’t go on.” She said, choking on her words.  “I can’t live my life.  I don’t even know who I am anymore.  I’m dead already, I don’t know that I can try any longer.”

            “Don’t say that.” He was almost afraid of how her weak fingers across his hand made him feel.  She was touching him—he tried to breathe steadily.

            “Why not?  How I am to live?”

            “You don’t have to worry about that anymore.  I’ll not let anything hurt you again, I swear it.”

            “Since when did you start making vows?” She sobbed, almost laughing.  “ _There are no True Knights._   Isn’t that what you always say?” 

            “Said.”        

            “Said?”        

            “Aye.  Said.”

            “What do you say now, then?”

            “I say that I vow to protect you until I breathe my last breath.”

            “Why?”

            “I’ve already told you.  I love you.”

            “That again.”           

            “Aye, that again.”

            Sansa began to sniffle, her tears coming at a steady flow.

            “Everytime a man says that he loves me I am—I am…” She couldn’t say the words.  _Beaten.  Threatened.  Isolated.  Caged._ The memories were, of course, worse than the words.  The Kings love—Ser Meryn, Ser Boros, Ser Ilyn—left her stripped in front of court, struck with hard fists and the blunt sides of swords.  That love made her gaze at her Father’s head upon a spike.  The supposd love of a man and its illusions had put her into a position where she was forced into marrying the Tyrion, having to withstand Petyr’s kisses forcing her mouth open, his insistent tongue lapping against hers.  The only thing that she’d dreamed of had been what she was forced to survive. 

“I’ll never say it again.” He offered her, as though he were reading her mind.

            “No!” She exclaimed before she could stop the words from falling out of her mouth.  “Don’t—I mean, you don’t have to stop.”

            “I don’t have to say it for it to be true.” He wanted to fall at her feet, beg her to allow him to love her, forgive him.  But he couldn’t push her into more pain.

            “They forced me to marry Tyrion.” She said, quietly, wanting to answer his question from yesterday.  “It was awful.”

            “I’m sorry that I didn’t save you, Little Bird.”  It was odd hearing her call the Imp by his name—she almost sounded as though she sympathized with him. 

            “Don’t be—or do be.  Oh, I don’t know.  At least you’d prepared me for having to kiss him.” She whispered, trying to look at him once more, unable to bring herself to make eye contact.

            “Prepared you?” He asked, suddenly incredulous.

            “Don’t mock me.” She sneered.

            “I’m not mocking you, Little Bird.”

            “You are.”

            “No, I am not.” He said, trying to keep his voice from growing cold.  “How did I prepare you?”

            In the silence that passed between him his mind flooded with hateful images—the Lannister’s claws holding her down, forcing their Imp onto his beautiful Bird.  He’d taught her to be pliable and sweet—he’d taught her to capsize against the will of anyone with power and be swept away by the tide of their will.  She didn’t answer.

            “Little Bird—how did I prepare you?” He asked again, his voice sounding suddenly rougher, like gravel.

            “I feel such a fool.” She said, shaking her head.

            “Sansa.”

            “Dog.” She rolled her eyes, becoming angry once again.

            “Sansa, how did I prepare you?”

            “You kissed me—how else?” She said, her jaw becoming tense.

            “I did no such thing.”

            “Liar.”

            “I’m no liar.”

            “Then you are a drunk!” She cried.  “Do you not remember trying to cut my throat out, either?  Your song?  Frightening me so much that I missed my opportunity to escape?”        

            “I’ve remembered those things every day since that night—I’ve relived those things a thousand times and it is still as fresh—”

            “But you deny kissing me?”

            “I don’t deny—it didn’t happen.  I didn’t force you to kiss me.”

            “Then why have I thought about it every day—relived it a thousand times?” She asked him, acting as a parrot with his words.

            “I’m sorry—”

            “Not as sorry as I am.” She said as she stood up, storming away from him, slamming his bedroom door behind her.

            Sandor didn’t move.  What was she talking about?  He was confused, his mind flipping through every memory that he had of her.  There was no possible way that he would have forgotten kissing her—her lips against his—he’d have that engraved on his very heart.  He’d have lived on that memory alone, would have existed for that thought, would have made his heart a temple for _that_.

            _This is to be expected.  Have patience._ He reminded himself once again.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
